


Overdose: a Sherlock Fanfiction

by Alexander_Watson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28254501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Watson/pseuds/Alexander_Watson
Summary: After John's marriage and Rosie's birth, Sherlock overdoses on drugs one night. After calling John with no response, what happens then?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Overdose: a Sherlock Fanfiction

**Author's Note:**

> Hi dudes! This fic was inspired by a Pinterest prompt. I promise everything will turn out fine—just read until the end! Happy reading....

  
No one had seen Sherlock for days.  
Mrs. Hudson left groceries outside his door, but when she checked on them, they still sat there, untouched. She wished she could go and look in on him, but the last time she attempted to do that she could hardly open the door for the papers and objects strewn everywhere. Sherlock himself was standing atop the couch, waving the bow to his violin like a sword and repeating stanzas from Poe's "The Raven" at the top of his voice, and although she trusted and loved him with all her heart, she did not want to be speared on the end of a violin bow, and so after ducking under several lines of string and pictures stretched across the room, she nimbly slipped out the door and immediately called John.  
"Hello, John," she said nervously from the kitchen as a great bang sounded from the floor above.  
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," John answered, pleasantly surprised. "How are you?"  
"Oh, I'm doing fine, but John, you must come over. It's Sherlock."  
"What about him?" came John's concerned voice over the line. "Is he all right?"  
"See, I don't know," Mrs. Hudson said, twirling her finger in the phone chord, "I think he's started doing drugs again. He's been acting very strange lately, and I can't get him to talk to me."  
John's concerned sigh echoed over the phone. "Are you sure he's started again? We both thought he quit."  
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Hudson said quickly, nodding vigorously, "I am sure he's started again."  
"Does he have a case?"  
"Yes, but—"  
"Then I think he should be fine, Mrs. Hudson. He can be rather—temperamental. We both know that," John said comfortingly.  
"I'm not so sure," Mrs. Hudson said as another crash echoed from upstairs. "If you could just come and have a look at him—"  
"Look, Mrs. Hudson, I am really glad you called, truly, I am, but I'm at work right now and can't make it. Do you think you could call back later?"  
"No, John, he needs you now," Mrs. Hudson pleaded, bouncing with agitation.  
"I am sorry—" faint voices echoed on the other line, calling John's name. "—I really have to go. Why don't you phone Lestrade? I'll come when I can, Mrs. Hudson, I promise. Thank you!" And with a click, the line went dead.  
Mrs. Hudson set the phone down frustratedly. They could be so blind to each other sometimes. She would have to take matters into her own hands. But John had told her to call Lestrade first; she at least owed John that much, to listen to him just this once. Dialing the police department, she waited for Lestrade to pick up, worriedly biting her lip as the ringtone echoed repeatedly. 

"No, I haven't seen him recently," Lestrade answered, his brow furrowing as he sat back in his chair.  
"See, I haven't either," Mrs. Hudson's concerned voice came over the line, "I was wondering if you could come over and check on him."  
"Couldn't you just—open the door a little and poke your head in? I'm a little tied up at the moment."  
"Well, inspector, seeing as I almost received a broken teacup in the face for trying to do just that last time, I am rather inclined not to," Mrs. Hudson said stubbornly. "Please come down here. He needs somebody."  
Lestrade hesitated. "I'll see what I can do," he answered sincerely.  
"Oh, thank you!" Mrs. Hudson sighed, then grew firm. "Now send someone down quickly, because John can't make it, and they must be—"  
"I promise we'll get someone down there today," Lestrade said comfortingly. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He hung up, set his phone back on his desk, then sat back in his chair with a sigh. Sherlock hiding in his flat, shut off from John and Mrs. Hudson—this couldn't be good. Then again, he did have a case, and he was known to be rather erratic. Surely Mrs. Hudson was just overreacting, but he made a mental note to drop by after work. Hopefully he hadn't hurt himself. 

Everything hurt. Oh, God, he felt terrible.  
Sherlock tried to open his eyes, but the room tilted dangerously and his head spun and pounded. He groaned and fell back, shutting his eyes again, and just lay still. What happened....he was...was...doing something, and took another dose. Then he must've rearranged the furniture—the couch was better on its side, anyway, and then....fallen asleep, here, in his chair in the sitting room.  
Something didn't feel right, though. He tried to uncurl himself from the chair, and groaned again as spots flashed before his vision. His stomach felt like it was twisted into knots, a pain in his chest like someone had taken a knife and stabbed him in the heart, soaked with sweat, his heart pounding. The flat swam before his eyes and a wave of nausea flooded him.  
Sherlock braced himself and unsteadily stood, shakily straightening upright before taking a slow step forwards. It immediately turned into a lurch, and he stumbled forwards, hands outstretched as he caught himself against the wall, his legs shaking terribly. Panting for breath, he blinked furiously to clear his vision as best he could, then staggered down the hall to the bathroom, grasping the walls to pull him along, papers kicked out of the way by his bare feet.  
The cold tile and cool air came as a relief to his sweaty self, his head pounding fit to burst, bile rising in his mouth as his stomach wrenched again. Collapsing on his knees in front of the toilet, he threw up, his sides heaving, back arching with the force of his retching. There wasn't much to purge from his system, though; Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he ate.  
Gradually, his heaving stopped, and he sat, slumped over the floor, breathing hard, hands shaking, heart pounding, his shirt sticking to his chest with sweat, a vile taste filling his mouth.  
Sherlock tried to focus his thoughts, tried to bring himself back into reality, back into control, but things swam in and out of a hazy sludge, his body responding slowly to his direction. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and fell backwards, crashing against the opposite wall, his legs splayed across the tile floor. Damn, he felt terrible...come on, Sherlock...think....  
But it was a long time before he moved again, the coolness of the tile floor calming against his hot skin and throbbing head. His eyes fluttered shut and he forced himself to breathe deeply, trying with all his might to concentrate, to go to his mind palace—something—but it was taking too long, why couldn't he go, why, why WHY—  
Sherlock forced down the panic that rose in his throat. Not now. No. Not here. Think, Sherlock, think—  
He had been dancing—yes, waltzing. That was it. Swept up in the euphoria, singing snippets of waltzes at the top of his voice, moving smoothly over the papers strewn over the floor, dodging furniture, leaping over the table, choruses of strings thrumming in his ears. He had danced into the kitchen and taken another dose and skipped back to the sitting room, the strings growing louder, his attention jumping from one thing to the next. Eventually he collapsed in his chair, exhaustion sweeping over him, and he was asleep within seconds. There had to be something wrong—think, Sherlock, think. Did he hit his head on something, or...oh....oh no.  
Lurching to his feet, Sherlock stumbled to the sink, roughly jerking the faucet on and splashing water across his face from the sink, hanging on to the sides of the porcelain bowl. His stomach twisted horribly again and he folded inwards, gasping with pain, his knuckles white on the sides of the sink. Panting, his face twisted with pain, slowly he looked up, into the mirror, and into the face of a man he did not recognize. Dark circles ringed his sunken eyes, his skin chalky white, his hair messy and sticking to his forehead with sweat, clothes wrinkled and stained.  
It took him a moment to realize that this was himself. God, he looked terrible. And felt worse.  
John. He needed John.  
Pushing off from the sink, he staggered back down the hall. He needed to get to his phone. Needed to check his stash, though with a sinking feeling, he knew what had happened. Check the drawer. Get to John. Check the drawer. Get to John.  
He repeated it like a mantra, each step agonizingly slow, dragged out into an hour instead of a second, the floor tilting under his feet like the rocking of a ship in a swirling storm, lightning pounding in his head, thunder roaring in his ears—  
Check the drawer. Get to John.  
The light had faded from the room, the night sky glowing with streetlights out the window, casting luminous bars across the messy floor and overturned furniture, an unsettling glow throughout the quiet room. Sherlock stumbled to the kitchen, opening the drawer where he kept his stash. He gripped the counter, blinking hard to register what he saw. No. No, no, no, it couldn't be that bad...his breathing quickened, his stomach twisting again, no, no—God, no—  
"No, no, NO—JOHN—" he shouted, his voice rising in panic. He slammed the drawer shut, then open again, open and shut, hoping desperately that something might change, something might be different, but he knew that nothing would change.  
Panting with the exhaustion of keeping himself upright, he stumbled back, gripping his head in his hands. How could he have been so stupid? Oh, God—he needed John—now—  
Sherlock lunged back to his chair, collapsing into the seat like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He groped for his phone on the table next to him, vision blurring, mouth open with the effort of breathing, perspiration beading his forehead. His fingers met cold metal and he wrapped his fingers around his phone, bringing it into his chest. He was shaking like a leaf in a gale, whole body shivering violently as he curled himself in the chair, his hands missing the button to turn the screen on. Finally, the blaze of light lit up his face and another arrow of pain shot through his head, but he gasped and forged ahead, trying to punch in his passcode. Time after time he was locked out. Panic started to thrum in his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut, blowing out heavily to calm his racing heart, then carefully typed the numbers in. The home screen showed mercifully in the dim light from the kitchen.  
Even now Sherlock could feel his body relaxing again, exhausted from his escapade around the flat. His breathing slowed and black spots swam before his vision, tiredness filling his mind. No, he had to do this, had to—  
He opened the phone app and after blinking several times, found John's contact. He couldn't text—his fingers wouldn't hit the right letters. Jamming the call button, Sherlock flopped back in his chair, fighting desperately to stay awake. The phone rang.  
And rang.  
And rang.  
"John, pick up, pick up," Sherlock gasped, willing with all his heart that he would.  
And then it went to voicemail.  
Sherlock let out his breath in a desperate sob. He needed someone. God, he needed John is who he needed—but the blackness swam before his eyes—he had to call someone—he swiped back a page and clicked someone random. Oh let it be someone—anyone who would come to him—and get John—the phone was ringing now, the beats echoing inside his muddled brain—pick up—oh, John—  
The ringing stopped, and a voice sounded over the line, an echoing "Hello?"  
His voice stuck in his throat, a wet choke that turned into a whisper. "Help," Sherlock murmured, his eyes closing, then fell back into the chair, dropping into a deep sleep, the phone call still going as the phone slipped out of his hand and hit the floor. 

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you there?" Lestrade repeated worriedly as the line echoed with silence.  
There was no response.  
He was almost done anyway. Immediately slamming his laptop shut, he stood abruptly from his chair and ran to his coat on the wall. Everything else could wait. Sherlock was in trouble.  
"Donovan," he called down the hallway as he swung his coat on, "I'm leaving. I'll be back in the morning."  
"A little quick, don't you think?" came her answer as she stood up from her desk and leaned on the doorframe as he shoved his arms through his coat sleeves.  
"It's dark outside and everyone else has gone home. I don't think so."  
"Well, don't stay out too late."  
"I won't. I'm stopping by Baker Street on my way home. I think something may be wrong."  
Lestrade could hear Donovan's exasperated eyeroll. "And don't give me that attitude," he said seriously, turning around to look at her. "Close up behind me. I won't be back tonight."  
"Yes sir," Donovan sighed as he charged out the door to his car. Damn, he better get there fast. Shoving his phone in his coat pocket, the night air bit at his cheeks as he opened the door of his car and leapt into the driver's seat. He called Sherlock again, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the phone, but there was no answer. Lestrade sped up, the streetlights flashing by in lightened blurs. God help him, he better be all right...

Sherlock stared into the microscope. Today was a good day—experiments, murders—yes. Taking an eye dropper from the counter, he dripped a few spots of liquid into his solution and turned back to his work as the door opened. Rather slow opening the door and coming in; someone not used to being in here. He glanced quickly to the door. Mike was here, and someone new. Sherlock glanced over him quickly.  
"Well, a bit different from my day," the unfamiliar man said.  
"You've no idea," Mike sighed good-naturedly. Sherlock decided to explore more about this newcomer—a potential flatmate, no doubt.  
"Mike, can I borrow your phone, there's no signal on mine," he said, still focused on his work.  
"Well what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked.  
"I don't like to text."  
Mike searched his coat. Sherlock already knew he didn't have it—both pockets were swinging, evenly balanced, evenly empty. "Sorry—it's in my coat," Mike said predictably.  
"Ah, here," the other man said, fumbling in his own coat. "Use mine."  
"Oh." Sherlock glanced at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Better play it cool first. He crossed to the other man in a few quick strides. "Thank you."  
"S'n old friend of mine. John Watson," Mike said, motioning across to him as Sherlock took the phone and tossed it once before opening the message app and typing out his message. Let's see—names on the back, scratches by the charger...  
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked, not looking up.  
"Sorry?" John answered.  
"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"  
John paused. You could almost hear the gears turning in his head. "Afghanistan, sorry, how did you—"  
But another arrival at the door caused Sherlock to spin around; he knew who it was by the light footsteps. "Ah, Molly! Coffee. Thank you." He paused, quickly searching her face. "What happened to the lipstick?"  
"It—wasn't working for me," Molly mumbled, clearly embarrassed, eyeing the others in the room. Sherlock turned away.  
"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth looks so—small now."  
Molly stood still, self-conscious and blushing red. "Okay," she said finally, and turned on her heel to leave.  
"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked, swinging on his coat.  
"Sorry, what?" John said again. Rather typical for first meetings.  
"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," Sherlock clarified, tying his scarf around his neck and casting another glance towards John.  
"Uh—you—you told him about me?" John stammered, mistrustfully staring towards Mike.  
"Not a word," Mike answered, smiling rather smugly, obviously enjoying himself.  
"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John asked, looking critically around the room.  
"I did. Told Mike this morning I was a difficult man to find a flat mate for. Now here he is, after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." Sherlock raised his eyebrows and arranged his coat, checking his pockets. Explaining was normal. Everyone asked for it eventually. He liked to know what was going on—they all did. That was all well and good for him.  
"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked, but Sherlock continued on, pulling out his phone. They would get to that question later.  
"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow, seven o'clock. Sorry—gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He strode past John, opening the door, ready to leave, but John's indignant voice made him pause.  
"S' that it?"  
Sherlock turned back towards him. "Is that what?"  
"We only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat?" John said, standing stiffly.  
"Problem?" Sherlock blinked at him. 

Lestrade pounded up the stairs. Every second he grew more worried. Things were quiet—too quiet. Taking the steps two at a time, he leapt onto the landing and twisted the door handle violently, but it didn't open. He shook it, hard, and threw himself against the wood, but it didn't budge.  
"Sherlock?" he called through the door, "Sherlock, are you there?" But there was no answer. Gritting his teeth, he stepped back and planted a solid kick by the lock, the door swinging open with a crash. Sherlock was sprawled in his chair, legs drawn to his chest, his hand dangling down to the floor, the room around him a mess. Lestrade's chest thrummed with fear. He strode quickly to his side, sinking to one knee as he shook Sherlock's shoulder.  
"Sherlock. Come on, Sherlock—"

This clearly annoyed John. He blinked in irritation. "We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."  
Sherlock took a deep breath and grinned inwardly. This should introduce me to him fairly well. "I know you're an army doctor invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you don't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he just walked out on his wife, and I know that your therapist think your limp is psychosomatic, incorrectly, I'm afraid. It's enough to be going on, don't you think?" He turned satisfactorily on his heel, his coat flaring dramatically out behind him. He swung open the door, enjoying the stunned expression on John's face and the grin on Mike's, and was about to step out when he remembered John's other two points. He leaned back in the doorway, looking pensive.  
"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street," he finished, throwing in a roguish wink and sweeping out the door, smiling to himself. That should give a fair impression, indeed. Dramatic and mysterious, yet just enough to pique the doctor's interest; besides, Sherlock needed an assistant, and John needed a job. They would work well together—oh, if only he knew how much he would need John in the future, walking down the hallway that first day—how desperately he would need him now—but he could hear John's voice now, calling his name.  
He paused in his stride, trying to turn back to the lab, but everything became sluggish. He couldn't move—frozen in place—no, he needed to get to John. His surroundings were melting from around him as he spun back towards the door, icy blue and grays changing into dark, warm tones, dim lighting. No—he had to get to John—his voice was growing louder now—he was almost there—he reached for the handle—  
"Sherlock—Sherlock, can you hear me? Come on!"  
But that wasn't John—the lab faded away, melting into his own flat at Baker Street, someone else kneeling over him, shaking him, a light smack on the face causing him to open his eyes.  
"Lestrade," he mumbled, his forgotten pain seeping back into his consciousness.  
"Oh, thank God," Lestrade said, sitting back, "Are you okay? Are you all right?"  
Sherlock waved a weak hand towards the kitchen. "Overdose...hospital..."  
Lestrade's face paled. "Oh no, you didn't."  
Sherlock nodded, his face contracting with pain. "I did. Drawer...in the kitchen...gah!" He folded in on himself, his stomach wrapping itself into knots. "Ambulance, Lestrade, ambulance!" he groaned, shaking with pain. Lestrade already had his phone out.  
"Yes, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. We need an ambulance now, I repeat, now, at 221b Baker Street. 221b Baker Street needs an ambulance now."  
Lestrade's words barely registered in Sherlock's foggy brain. Blood roared in his ears and pain contorted his thoughts so he could barely stay conscious, desperately hanging on the threads of lucidity so much that his knuckles turned white.  
Lestrade hung up, then turned back to Sherlock. "All right, now if you fall asleep again, we might not be able to wake you back up, so I need you to stay awake for as long as you can, you hear me?" he instructed, but even through his pain Sherlock could hear the fearful tremor in his voice.  
"Is everything all right?" a new voice said concernedly from the doorway, "I heard voices, and—Inspector!" Ms. Hudson came bustling into the room, smiling, "You did come by!"  
"Yes, I did, Ms. Hudson, but there's something terribly wrong," Lestrade said quickly, standing up, "Sherlock's had an overdose. We don't know how much time he has, but an ambulance is on its way. We just need him to stay awake for the time being."  
Ms. Hudson's face changed from happy to scared in an instant. "Sherlock," she said, turning towards him and wrapping her bathrobe tighter around herself, "is this true? Are you okay?"  
"Ms. Hudson," Sherlock gasped, surprised and worried, "I—" but he decided to be honest. "It's true. I'm not okay." He reached out a shaking hand and caught her own. "I'm sorry," he whispered, staring up at her pleadingly, "I'm sorry—what I did—how I acted—"  
"No, no, no, there's nothing to apologize for," Ms. Hudson said gently, squeezing his hand tightly. "Don't worry about it. Now just stay with us, don't worry."  
But Sherlock twisted to look up at Lestrade. "John," he panted, "get John."  
Lestrade spun in a circle. "John—how could we forget John!"  
"I didn't," Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes as Lestrade dialed John's number, the darkness beginning to seep back into his vision.  
"Stay with us, now, Sherlock," Ms. Hudson said urgently, "You've got to stay awake, now."  
And he tried. He tried to keep the light in focus, to keep his body pumping, to keep his thoughts incoming. He stumbled through his mind palace, frantically checking doorways and hallways for anything within his power to keep himself awake—but he saw only darkness, the drugs slowing his brain, blocking out things with dark—dark—John, he needed John—oh God—  
"John," he whispered again.  
"Pick up, dammit, John, pick up!" Lestrade shouted, pacing in circles, glancing frantically at Sherlock as Ms. Hudson shook him to keep him awake. 

The phone rang, unanswered, on the bedside table for several minutes. Ring after ring echoed throughout the dark and silent room. John was fast asleep—it had been a busy day at work, on his feet much of the time, and this was the first night Rosie had slept soundly for more than a few hours at a time. Finally, though, the ringtone sounded softly in his head and he pulled himself out of bed, sighing as he pressed the answer button to silence the phone.  
"Hello?" John said tiredly, not expecting much of an answer.  
"John! Thank God! Listen, this is Lestrade—"  
"Who?" John asked, rubbing his eyes.  
"Lestrade! Detective Inspector Lestrade! Look—something's happened—Sherlock's been doing drugs again, and earlier tonight he overdosed. I don't know the exact symptoms or how much time he has left, but it's bad, John, really bad. We're trying to keep him awake and we're loading him into the ambulance now."  
"Wait, Sherlock's what?" John stood up, grabbing the clothes he had laid out for work the next morning.  
"Sherlock's overdosed. He's dying, John, and he's been asking for you non-stop. Please come down and meet us at the hospital—and hurry!"  
"I'm on my way—tell him I'm on my way!" John said, hastily pulling on his shirt and jumping into his trousers.  
"Good—and hurry, John, he needs you!" Lestrade hung up, John breathing hard in the dark, his fingers working to tie the laces on his shoes, the room once again dark and silent.  
"What's going on?" Mary said sleepily from her side of the bed, sitting up slightly, "Is everything all right?"  
"Something's happened with Sherlock," John said, remembering to keep his voice down, "I need to borrow your car. I'll only be gone for a short while."  
"Take it," Many responded, rising concernedly, "do you want me to come?"  
"No, you need to stay here with Rosie," John said, walking quickly to the door and casting a fond glance back at his wife, "Go back to sleep."  
"If you insist," Mary smiled, then fell back into the pillows. "Have fun."  
John smiled, but it was tight and pained. Careful not to make a sound, shirt still unbuttoned, he snatched Mary's keys off their hook and ran out the front door, sliding into the driver's seat and shoving the keys in quickly.  
The streets flashed by as he floored the accelerator, panic rising in his throat—Sherlock was dying, and it was his own stupid fault for not being there, spending too much time away, not monitoring him, and now he was losing his best friend—God help him, he better be all right, he better be all right!  
"Hang in there, Sherlock, I'm coming. I'm coming," he said softly to himself, hands white on the steering wheel. 

Sherlock sat impatiently in the cab, the darkness outside the window only broken by the street lamps and passing cars. There were no pedestrians at this hour. All the better. Sherlock's mind was eerily calm, the different scenarios passing smoothly through his mind. It was time for this game to end. No more playing around; he wouldn't dance any longer. John had gone safely—it was just him and his adversary.  
The cab slowed to a stop. Sherlock tossed the cabbie the fare and slipped out the door, intently walking to the front of the building and quietly opening the door, casting his coat aside and making sure his revolver was in his pocket.  
The building was empty—of course it was. He would have made sure of that.  
Sherlock stepped quietly through the dark halls, entering the hall of the swimming pool. Eerie blue light flickered around the walls, the tile floor still splashed with water from the vanished swimmers, the red and green doors and curtains along the edges garishly out of place.  
There was no one in sight.  
But Sherlock knew he was there. He could feel him lurking in the shadows, the quiet rippling of water the only sound. Hiding was his signature—he would not reveal himself until goaded.  
"Want your little getting-to-know you present," Sherlock said, his voice echoing around the empty space, stepping carefully forwards, one foot in front of the other, mind whirring, alert at any sound or movement, sliding the thumb drive out of his pocket and holding it aloft. "This is what it's all been for, isn't it?" he continued, "All your little puzzles...making me dance, all to distract me from this." He stepped carefully around, searching the pool for any sign of movement, a hint of triumph heard in his voice.  
Slow footsteps and the rustle of clothing suddenly sounded throughout the room, and Sherlock tensed, ready for his foe, but it was someone familiar who stepped out in front of him.  
John.  
Sherlock felt the color drain from his face. He froze. It wasn't possible—John wasn't Moriarty, how could he be—all this time—no, he was safe, he shouldn't be here!  
But a part of him collapsed in relief as John's gaze met his own, his eyes full of steely defiance. Of course John wasn't Moriarty—he was a pawn in a game, just like Sherlock, stolen to use as a hostage, the only way to get to Sherlock himself. How intelligent—  
"Evening," John said flatly, staring evenly at Sherlock, blinking rapidly. "This is quite the turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock." He was blinking SOS, Sherlock realized. It had to have been something with the jacket. Bombs, in the jacket, like with the others. Moriarty loved drama—even now he was using John as his voice.  
"What would you like me to make him say next," John continued in the same flat voice, sliding his hands from his pockets and pulling the coat open to reveal two packs of bombs, wired and flashing. Sherlock knew it was hard for him to keep speaking, a hint of pain just barely noticeable upon his face. "Gottle o'geer, gottle o'geer, gottle o'—"  
"Stop it," Sherlock said sharply, more to save John from the humiliation than anything. He advanced slowly, eyes fixed on John. How to save him, how to get him out of this....  
"Nice touch, this," John continued, "the pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him." John took a shaky breath, his voice rising to mask his fear. "I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart."  
"Who are you?" Sherlock said loudly, turning to look behind him. God, why was he doing this to John? How much longer would they have to wait, while Moriarty played with them like a cat with string?  
"I gave you my number," a new voice sounded, high and timid. "I thought you might call." Sherlock slowly turned towards it, a new figure stepping out into the hall, his hands in his pockets.  
"Is that a British Army Browning L9-A1 in your pocket?" the man drawled, "or are you just pleased to see me?" Sherlock immediately knew who it was. Of course he did. Moriarty. Jim. From I.T. His hand crept to his gun.  
"Both," he answered, drawing it smoothly out and leveling it at Moriarty's head.  
The man didn't move. "Jim Moriarty," he said simply. "Hi!"  
He started wandering towards them, Sherlock keeping the gun leveled at his head. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" the man continued, glancing down as Sherlock brought his other hand up to steady the gun. "Ah, do I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, that was rather the point." A targeting laser appeared suddenly on John's chest and Sherlock glanced anxiously towards him.  
"Don't be silly, someone else's holding the rifle," Moriarty scoffed. "I don't like getting my hands dirty." He glanced unconcernedly towards the water, then steadily back towards them. Why was he taking his time?  
"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse, of what I've got going on out there in the big, bad world. I'm a specialist, you, see," he mused, looking with raised eyebrows towards him, "like you!"  
"Dear Jim," Sherlock murmured, his mind whirling, "please will you fix it for me, to get rid of my lover's nasty sister—" Moriarty started wandering towards them, a pleased smile across his face. "Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America..."  
"Just so," Moriarty smiled, rocking forwards on his toes.  
"Consulting criminal," Sherlock said softly, eyes unmoving from Moriarty's face. "Brilliant."  
"Isn't it?" Moriarty grinned, throwing a glance toward John, "No one ever gets to me." He looked Sherlock up and down, confidence written in his expression. "And no one ever will."  
Sherlock cocked the gun. "I did."  
"You've come the closest." He grinned. "Now you're in my way!"  
"Thank you."  
"Didn't mean it as a compliment."  
"Yes you did."  
"Yeah, ok, I did," Moriarty conceded, shrugging. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock, Daddy's had enough now!" he said in falsetto, walking closer. "I've shown you what I can do, I've cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play." He stopped walking, his face in shadow. "So take this as a friendly warning...my dear. Back off. Although," he started walking again, smiling flirtatiously, "I have loved this. This little game of ours, playing Jim, from I.T., playing gay...did you like the little touch with the underwear?" he laughed.  
Sherlock's gun hand started to shake. He held it steady. "You could have died."  
"That's what people DO!" Moriarty shouted suddenly, the echoes reverberating around the hall.  
"I will stop you," Sherlock answered quietly.  
"No you won't," Moriarty said offhandedly.  
Sherlock looked to John. "You all right?"  
Moriarty crept up behind John, leaning over to speak in his ear. "You can talk, Johnny boy," he said, smiling. John stood stiffly, fighting the urge to satisfy him by opening his mouth. He glanced at Sherlock and nodded.  
"Take it," Sherlock said, sliding the USB from his pocket and holding it out to Moriarty, the gun never moving from his adversary's forehead.  
"Oh! That! The missile plaaaans..." Moriarty whispered mysteriously, grinning and stepping closer to take them from Sherlock's outstretched hand, raising the small stick of metal to his lips before glancing mischievously up at Sherlock. "Bo-ring! I could have got them anywhere." With fake surprise, he tossed them into the pool.  
Suddenly, John ran up behind him, throwing an arm around Moriarty's neck and pulling him backwards. "Sherlock, run!" he said quickly, fighting to keep Moriarty held fast, steely determination in his eyes.  
"Oho! Good!" Moriarty choked out, arching back and grinning crazily, "ve-ery good!"  
"Tell you sniper to pull that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, and we both go up," John gasped quietly, Sherlock keeping the gun steady at his forehead.  
"Mm, he's sweet, I can see why you like having him around," Moriarty mused, talking to Sherlock, "but then, people do get so sentimental about their pets." John grasped him tighter, jerking him backwards, cutting off his speech. "They're so touchingly loyal."  
"Sherlock, go, please," John said quietly, struggling to keep Moriarty in his grip.  
"No," Sherlock said, the tremor making its way back into his aim. "We leave here together."  
"You know," Moriarty choked out, a grimacing smile across his face, "I normally try to keep stay out of it, but—" And suddenly John was thrust onto one knee arm twisted behind him, Moriarty standing over him, a cocked gun pressed to the back of his head, both men breathing hard. "—sometimes I like to have a little fun."  
Alarm bells rang in Sherlock's mind—this wasn't how it was supposed to go—  
"I was going to wait until later, but this is quite the set up here!" Moriarty laughed, then sobered quickly and gazed intently at him. "Now, you're going to put the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger, or someone else will have a bullet through their brain..." He trailed the barrel of the gun along John's cheek and jaw, giggling as John didn't move, his pained gaze fixed on the floor. What was he supposed to do—  
There was silence.  
"Aw, come on!" Moriarty moaned, grinning, "no pleas, no desperate 'Waits!'" he called in a falsetto voice, batting his eyelashes, but his voice turned to an angry shout. "You're not even looking at each other!"  
Sherlock's hands trembled as Moriarty seized the back of John's head and jerked it upwards, John's pained gasp and grimace fading to a look of belief, of loyalty, of such complete trust, his eyes locked on Sherlock's own—and something else—resignation. John was ready to die for him. No one had ever looked at him like that. Sherlock's hands trembled more, and he tried to regain his cool, to steady the tremor, to organize his thoughts, but John's gaze turned them all into a jumble, racing, but full of nothing—no plans, no clever solutions, no rescue this time—  
"Come on, Sherlock, surely there's some way you can get out of this," Moriarty droned, "this isn't any fun for me."  
"How—" Sherlock cleared his throat. "How much time will you give me?"  
"Mmmm, three seconds." He rolled his eyes and grinned. "Ooonnnne—"  
"Sherlock," John said quietly, a pleading desperation creasing his forehead, "go. Run."  
"No, no. I'm not leaving you," Sherlock said, trying to keep the gun still, but it shook like a leaf, betraying the ranging panic he fought against on the inside, not matching his calm gaze.  
"Twoooooo...."  
"You have to. Go. Get out of here. You'll forget about me. We hardly know each other, anyway."  
Sherlock's expression flickered to one of hopelessness, the corner of his mouth turning upwards in a smile. "This is enough to be going on, don't you think?" he said softly.  
"Twooo aaand aaaa haaaaalf...."  
"Please, Sherlock, just go," John said firmly, and he almost did. He almost ran out, the fatal gunshot echoing in his ears, tears blinding him as he fled the building, the terrible image of John's blood seeping slowly across the tile floor, running through the cracks in the grout, his body hitting with a final thud, Moriarty casually throwing the gun aside and walking away, leaving John dead, alone, Sherlock running like a coward—

John raced into the hospital, throwing the doors open and running to the desk. "Where is he?" he shouted, leaning over to the receptionist, desperation glinting in his eyes, "Where is he?"  
"D-doctor Watson!" the receptionist stammered, caught off guard, "Mr. Holmes is on the third floor, room 354."  
John didn't reply. He raced down the hall, scenarios of dread flashing through his mind, Sherlock's heart beating, then slower, and slower, and slower....each of John's footsteps a beat closer to death, his chest rising and falling, breathing labored, until the room became quiet, his chest unmoving, John taking the stairs two at a time, pulling himself up by the railing—God, why couldn't he go faster—

"What would it take? What would it take to stop you?" Sherlock said loudly, doing his best to ignore John's pleas.  
"Nothing! I want you dead. That's what I want. Surely you know that, Sherlock," Moriarty said dangerously. His eyes trailed back to John. "Two and a half..."  
"All right! All right," Sherlock said, a note of panic clearly heard in his voice. He pressed the gun to his temple, taking a deep breath. "All right. I'll do it."  
"There's a good lad," Moriarty crooned, "now just—pull the trigger." He bit his lip, grimacing, and tapped the trigger of his gun, tilting his head to hurry things up.  
Sherlock pressed the barrel of the gun harder against his head, the circle of the barrel seeming to bore into his brain. His finger sat, trembling, on the trigger. If only someone else could touch it, put himself out of this nightmare—it was never supposed to end like this. He braced himself for the bullet, his eyes finding John's. The other was a lifeline—their gazes gave the other strength, Sherlock's resolve stiffening, John's determination flooding into him. He had only a few moments now.  
"Two and three quarters," Moriarty warned, his eyes coldly on Sherlock.  
Did it all have to end like this? All come crashing down around his head? It was going so well—and yet maybe he could gain a few more seconds—

"Any movement?" Lestrade asked worriedly, striding back in to the hospital room after waiting outside while the doctors worked.  
"None," the head doctor replied sadly. "We're doing all that we can." He paused, casting a sideways glance at him. "You will want to start saying your goodbyes."  
"Oh God," Lestrade sighed, then dropped into the chair next to Sherlock's bedside. "Sherlock," he said quietly, the doctors exiting the room, "please pull through this. For me. For John, if for no one else. You've done it twice before—just....do it again."  
But Sherlock lay still on the bed, lit with the hospital's blue lighting, monitors beeping his slow, steady heart rate, still wet with sweat, his skin pale and white.  
"Come on, Sherlock," Lestrade muttered, involuntary tears pricking his eyes, "pull through. Pull through." He buried his face in his hands and breathed deeply, trying to get a grip on his emotions.  
"Lestrade," a soft voice whispered, barely audible. He looked up suddenly. Sherlock was staring at him through half closed eyes, mouth open to take labored breaths.  
"God dammit, Sherlock, why'd you do it?" Lestrade burst out, tears starting to come, "You swore you finished with them!"  
"Just couldn't—" he turned to look up at the ceiling, his eyes filling with tears, "Couldn't live without...without John."  
"But you had him! He visited you, and worked with you."  
"It wasn't the same," Sherlock murmured, "It wasn't the same without him." He looked around the room, his forehead creasing. "Where is he?"  
"John's on his way, Sherlock, just hang in there, stay here, just stay here." Lestrade angrily swiped the tears away as Sherlock nodded sadly.  
"He will never get here in time," Sherlock whispered to himself, the driving time running through his fevered mind. He turned back to Lestrade. "I'm glad you're here, Greg," he said, his clear blue eyes resting upon him.  
Lestrade cried harder. "Of all the times to remember my name, Sherlock, now?" he choked out, half smiling.  
"I'm glad you're here, Greg," Sherlock repeated, his eyes closing, relaxing back into the pillows.  
"No!" Lestrade said loudly, half rising and shaking his shoulders, "Come on, Sherlock, stay here, dammit, pull through—for John, d'you hear me? For John! For John, Sherlock—" 

  
Sherlock stood still, his finger on the trigger, adrenaline surging through him as he slowly pressed it down.  
"Well! Too late!" Moriarty laughed suddenly, and pulled the trigger of his own gun, the bullet firing into the back of John's head, the crack of the gun echoing throughout the room.  
"NO!" Sherlock screamed hoarsely, leaping towards them, but the impact of something in his chest threw him back and he tumbled to the floor.  
"Sherlock!" John yelled, and he lunged towards him, but Moriarty held him still, the gun to his head.  
"Ah ah ah! I still have quite a few bullets left," Moriarty chided, Sherlock gasping on the floor in front of them. "If you move, you'll end up just like your friend here." He stepped away from John, red targeting lights appearing on the soldier's forehead, John panting with helplessness, his face twisted into an expression of panic and horrification.  
Sherlock lay on the floor, pressing a hand to his chest. What hurt so much—what—he pulled his hand away, staring at it.  
It was red with blood, the scarlet liquid soaking his shirt, the sharp pain in his chest growing with each passing second. He gasped with shock and then groaned in sudden pain, Moriarty standing over him, gun held languidly at his side.  
"What did you do?" John choked out, "You shot me! How did—"  
"Oh, please!" Moriarty smiled, "Surely you of all people know why! No? Well, when I kill you, it's like a bullet through his heart. Your death—your loss—was a death blow to him. And so I just—" he shrugged—"helped the process along."  
"But—" John gasped, seeming to strain against some invisible ropes that bound him.  
"Oh, this is fun, isn't it?" Moriarty smiled, watching Sherlock's blood start to flow across the tile floor. He laughed. "You have no idea how long I've waited to do this." He whirled again, firing another bullet at John.  
"NO!" John screamed as the bullet ripped through Sherlock, causing him to gasp and fold in on himself, blood soaking his shirt, spreading across the floor. He convulsed with pain, the scene shifting and melting around him until it was the darkness of Vauxhall Arches, the drip of water mixing with John's gasps and Sherlock's groans.  
"You haven't got much time left now, Sherlock. Boy, when you started taking those drugs again, whew!" Moriarty shook his head, the dim light casting sinister shadows across his face. "Every time you took some—every dose—you weakened my prison. The seams of the straight jacket popped, the chains rusted, until finally, I was able to get out!" He grinned enthusiastically, opening his arms. "I set my traps. I played your game. So I really must thank you, John," he said, turning towards him, "for marrying off. He neeeeveer would have done anything if the sort if yoooou were around."  
"Forgive me, John," Sherlock panted, twisting to look at him, his vision blurring, "please forgive me."  
"Sherlock," John whispered, face frozen in horror and pity.  
"Please, beg!" Moriarty laughed, "it just gets better and better!" He teasingly raised the gun towards John again.  
"STOP!" John yelled desperately, his voice echoing through the arches, "Stop, please!"  
But another two gunshots rang out. Sherlock jerked on the floor with a scream, the bullets tearing through him, his shirt now in bloody tatters. Tears ran down his cheeks, each breath seeming to tear himself apart, the metallic taste filling his mouth. He rolled into his stomach, coughing heavily, bloody saliva hanging from his mouth, red spreading in pools around him.  
And suddenly it was so bright, hard cement beneath his knees. He knew where he was this time—the rooftop of St. Bart's. 

John threw open the stairwell door and sprinted down the hallways. The blood pounded in his ears, tears stinging his eyes. He glanced at the doorways as he passed, ducking past personnel. God—room 300, room 303–

  
"Only minutes left now," Moriarty chided. "I have to make this as painful as possible." He eyed John. "You want to see him? Go on—go on!" He lowered his gun. John didn't need telling twice. He sprinted over to Sherlock, throwing off the jacket. Paying no attention to the blood, he threw himself on his knees and pulled Sherlock onto his lap, pressing his hands down upon the holes in his chest.  
"Stay with me now, Sherlock, please. Everything's going to be all right."  
"No, no it's not, John," Sherlock gasped, clutching at his hands, "please forgive me—oh God—please forgive me!"  
"I—I forgive you, Sherlock," John said gently, tears forming in his eyes, "now please stay with me—"  
"I can't, John, and it's my fault, it's all my fault—" he pressed himself into John, body shaking with sobs, his blood spreading over them both. John leaned into him, tears streaming down his cheeks, holding Sherlock close to him as he sobbed.  
"Shh, shhh," he said softly, his voice catching in his throat.  
"I think we have time for ooone more bullet, don't you think?" Moriarty said amusedly from the side.  
"No," Sherlock whispered as he stepped closer, John shielding him with his body.  
"I showed you what would happen to you if John died, now I'm going to show you what will happen to him when you die." Slowly, he raised the gun level with Sherlock's forehead.  
"No," Sherlock whispered again, fear flooding him, the dark muzzle of the barrel staring at him with a menacing finality.  
The shot went off.  
And John tumbled into Sherlock's arms, a bullet hole through his temple.  
"No—God—John!" Sherlock gasped, then was set upon by another round of hacking coughs, blood dripping out of his mouth, twisting around John, pulling at his shirt, hoping, desperately, uselessly, that everything would be fine, but John never moved, his eyes open and staring, a trickle of blood running down his forehead.  
"You see, Sherlock," Moriarty said, "Your death will kill him, too. He may live, yes, but he won't be the same. He'll just—exist, until one morning the gun just looks too good." He stood over him, carefully avoiding the red liquid spreading over the cement. "Now jump. One last time. Put yourself out of your misery. Stand up there, and I'll die, too."  
Sherlock twisted his hands into John's shirt, his tears leaving trails down his cheeks. This was the only thing he could do. The last option. The Final Problem. Still wracked with pain, his vision fading, he slowly pulled himself up, laying John gently on the cement, their blood mingling as it ran towards the edge of the wall. He hauled himself towards the wall, face contorted in pain, black spots dancing before his eyes, Moriarty watching critically.  
Sherlock knelt on the wall, wind whipping around him, the street below empty, sidewalks bare. His last act—no one to save him this time, nothing at all...  
He looked down at the still body on the cement roof, unmoving, unseeing, his face twisted in sorrow. "John," he murmured, "John I'm sorry, so, so, sorry—" 

John pounded down the hallways, squeezing around the doctors and nurses, deaf to the shouts to slow down or watch out. Thoughts whirled through his head—God, if anything happened to him—anything—320, 326, 332–

Sherlock closed his eyes, blood seeping through his fingers. The darkness was closing in, clouding his vision, slowing his thoughts. He could feel his heart, faintly beating, each moment a moment closer to his death. He shut his eyes, reveling in the life that flowed through him, if only for a moment longer. If only he could have spent that time here, alive, well, with John—  
"Go on, then," Moriarty whispered, the last voice he would ever hear. Sherlock felt himself tilting towards the edge, but he didn't try to stop it. Now was a good a time as any—

No, no no—338, 346–

He shoulder dipped towards the edge, and a sudden, last desire swept over him, to see John's face again, and he twisted midair to catch one final glance—  
But it was dark, all dark, and he was tipping off the edge, no way to stop it now, falling, falling down—  
Panic, jerking, abject terror thrummed suddenly through him, his feet leaving the concrete, the darkness seeming to rise around him as he fell, down, down, down—  
"John," he gasped, eyes wide with pain and fear. 

"Sherlock," John panted fearfully, hurtling past Room 350–

"JOHN!" Sherlock screamed, his voice grating in his throat, the dark reaching up around him, swallowing him—falling, falling, falling, down—down—John—

John burst into Room 354, flinging open the door, pausing in the doorway, breathless, taking in the scene—Sherlock lying in bed, on his back, still, and Lestrade, seated beside him.  
"Lestrade, Sherlock—" John gasped out, and Lestrade twisted to face him, his expression one of sadness and pity.  
"No," John said quietly, falling back, "no. He can't be."  
"His heart stopped just before you arrived," Lestrade answered softly. "He's dead, John."  
"No. No. I won't believe it," John said firmly, striding forwards and kneeling down beside the hospital bed. "Sherlock, I'm here now. Come on. You can pull through. I'm here."  
"John—he's dead," Lestrade said again.  
"No, no he's not! He wasn't dead when he jumped off a building, and he wasn't dead when he was shot. He's not dead now."  
Lestrade was silent. He hadn't the heart to persist. They had the rest of their lives to grieve. He sat, listless, as John kept speaking to Sherlock, the monitor still and silent, no movement from his heart.  
Eventually he couldn't take it anymore. Rising, Lestrade left the room. The door closed with finality behind him. Several doctors reached for the handle as Lestrade stepped away, but something rose up inside him.  
"Let him have a few minutes, will you?" Lestrade growled. The doctors hesitated.  
"But, sir—"  
"For God's sake, men, have some pity! Give them five minutes!"  
The doctors backed away.  
John sat inside, still entreating Sherlock to hold on, to wake up, to pull through, but slowly, he fell silent. The heart monitor was silent. The only sound was the hum of machinery and his own breathing. Sherlock had not moved.  
With a shaking hand, John reached out and took Sherlock's hand, sliding his fingers up to his wrist, feeling for a pulse.  
There was nothing.  
Nothing.  
Just like that day, years ago now, where Sherlock had lain, sprawled on the sidewalk, John holding his still wrist.  
Not breathing. Not moving.  
Just like now.  
Something clicked inside John. The tears came slowly, and against his will. Crying, here, where anyone could see him! He tried to stop them, but they came anyway, streaming down his cheeks. He pressed his face to the sheets, still holding Sherlock's hand. God dammit, did it have to end like this? Separated, and by his own hand? Maybe on the end of a gun, but not like this....oh, God, not like this....  
The soft squeak of the door opening caused John to spring to his feet, hurriedly swiping the tears away. The doctors worked quickly, but John wasn't watching them. He kept his eyes on Sherlock's still face, watching listlessly as they unhooked him from the machines, then wheeled him into the hall. John knew they were taking him to the mortuary, to be laid out, no different from the dozens of murdered men and women he had visited there, no different from the rest in death. It was only after John watched them sign the death certificate that his world came crashing down around him. He didn't hear Lestrade's comforting words or feel his grasp of a handshake, smiling blandly back, eyes unseeing.  
John left the building, walking to the car. He stood outside, leaning up against the driver's side door, not heeding the late hour or the cold wind that whipped around him. God. What would he do now?  
He couldn't go home. Not now. Couldn't act like nothing happened. God.  
He got in the car, pausing with the keys in the ignition. The glove box caught his eye. He had slipped his revolver in there, on his way to the hospital. He knew it sat there, cold and quiet. It seemed right.  
Rosie had Mary, and Mary was strong. But John had failed Sherlock. So completely and utterly failed him. Rosie would live happily, supported by a loving mother. They would be quite a duo.  
John drove to Baker Street. He parked in front of 221b. The gold lettering shone out in the dim light. John entered and climbed the stairs.  
He stood in the center of the flat, surrounded by papers and pictures, everything so familiar.  
And deathly quiet.  
He fingered his revolver, the feeling of despair heavy in his chest, dragging him down even now, each breath excruciating.  
He raised the gun to his head.  
A tear slipped down his cheek.  
"I'm coming, Sherlock," he whispered.  
John pulled the trigger. 

His eyes shot open with a gasp, the gunshot echoing in his ears. Drenched in cold sweat and shaking slightly, John lay in bed, shivering with shock. It took him a few minutes to realize that he was safe at home, Mary breathing quietly next to him, Rosie asleep outside, the soft hum of traffic outside. All was well. His nightmare had shaken him. He drew a hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat and letting out a shaky breath. Had anything happened?  
Carefully, John reached over to the bedside table and picked up his phone, squinting slightly in its brightness. No messages. No calls.  
He fell back among the blankets and tried to push the dream from his mind, to go back to sleep. Minutes passed.  
An hour.  
An hour and a half.  
Finally, John couldn't stand it. He swung himself out of bed, wide awake. The clock read 2:46.  
"Is everything all right, John?" Mary's sleepy voice whispered as he pulled on his clothes.  
"Yes—yes, everything's fine," John answered, his voice husky. "I just—need some air. I had a rather bad nightmare."  
"Do you want to talk to me about it?" Mary asked caringly, propping herself up on one elbow.  
John hesitated. "No, no. It's nothing. I'll be back soon."  
"Love you," Mary murmured as John left the room. He smiled as he picked up the keys to her car off the hook and slipped out the front door, reeling with deja vu.  
He had to know. He knew it wasn't real, but he had to know.  
John pulled up to 221b. He paused, filled with dread, as the glove box caught his eye. This is stupid, he thought to himself. You know it's not in there. But he grasped the handle and let out a breath as the glove box fell open, empty.  
Locking the car, John quietly opened the door to the flat and climbed the stairs. Sherlock's door was shut. The dread grew heavier in John's chest, sinking like a weight down to his stomach. He knocked softly.  
"Sherlock," he said softly, "Sherlock, are you there?" There was no answer. John jiggled the handle slightly, and the door opened, unlocked. He slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him, and turned to face the inside of the room. His heart sank down to his toes.  
Sherlock lay in his chair, exactly the way he had looked in his dream. John ran to his side and shook him.  
"Sherlock, wake up—oh God—" His heart beat faster as Sherlock didn't respond, mind flashing with sudden panic—what if it really was real—  
"John," Sherlock muttered, passing a hand in front of his eyes and yawning, then looking with confusion upon him. "What are you doing here, and at this hour?"  
John sat back on the floor with a relieved sigh. "Nothing, I—I just—" He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm glad you're all right."  
Sherlock looked confused. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"  
"Just—" John gestured randomly and pulled himself into his chair. "Just a nightmare."  
"Mm," Sherlock replied, and turned over in his chair, closing his eyes. John sat there, staring at him, lost in thought and breathing deeply in relief. Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and frowned.  
"Why are you still here?" he mumbled, closing his eyes. "Mary might need you at home."  
"Mary can handle herself for right now," John answered with a small smile. "Do you mind if I just...sit here for a while?"  
"Hm? No, not at all!" Sherlock answered, trying to stay nonchalant, but truly, he was glad for John's company. It had been at least a week since they had seen each other. A week of boring, bland days, few cases, and hours of nothing. Yes, of course he was fine with John being here!  
They sat, silent, in their respective chairs, the room quiet, the street outside empty. The hours passed. They dozed off, merely keeping the other company. It was nice, to be together like this, like the old days. Maybe they would go solve a murder in the morning—Mrs. Hudson's tea on the table, a biscuit or two, then jackets swung around their shoulders, the freshness of the crisp morning air, then the confident strides to the lab, leading to a jaunt around London.  
If only.  
John awoke before Sherlock, the sky outside beginning to lighten. With a sigh, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the time. 5:31. Time to get going. Standing stiffly with a groan, John turned back to Sherlock.  
"I-uh, need to get going to be ready for work on time," he said, not sure if Sherlock was even awake.  
"Mm," Sherlock replied, eyes still closed.  
John paused. "Right," he finished, then stepped towards the door.  
"John?" Sherlock said suddenly. He stopped, looking back over his shoulder. Sherlock was staring at him.  
"Thank you, for coming by."  
"Mm, you're welcome," John answered with a smile. "I'll see you later." He stepped out of the flat, quietly closing the door behind him and letting out a deep sigh before walking down the stairs, out the front door, and to the car.  
Thank God it was just a dream.  
He would be back to Baker Street—soon.


End file.
